


The Inquisition At Halamshiral

by RiddleRedCoats



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Celene is Big Mad about everything but has to hide it because of the G A M E, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, F/F, Gen, Introspection, Like BARELY Briala/Celene, Mentions of the Burning of Halamshiral, The Inquisitor is either a Genius Player or just kinda awkward, The Winter Palace, up to interpretation, very mild shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28599954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleRedCoats/pseuds/RiddleRedCoats
Summary: In which Celene is super bitter with the Inquisition, because how dare they try to stabilize her country, and in which Briala is always on her mind, because that is actually canon.A peak into the mind of the empress of orlais while the inquisition waltzes into the scene.
Relationships: Briala/Celene Valmont
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	The Inquisition At Halamshiral

**Author's Note:**

> this is from a prompt from the subreddit on Dragon Age that sparked my imagination for about 1600 words in the middle of exam season/thesis planning because it just do be like that.  
> work presumes passing knowledge of The Masked Empire.

She would like to say that the success of the Inquisition during her ball had been a foregone conclusion for her. Unfortunately, like far too many things in the past few years, it had caught her by surprise. In her defence, the origins of their burgeoning saviours were certainly suspect; the Haven village which was once former place of worship for a heretical group, the alarming speed to which it rose to fame, the sheer luck that seemed to follow their leader (the _Herald of Andraste_ of all epitaphs, which was enough to make her laugh) around in their world and in the Fade itself, while it failed even The Champion there.

Worse, the Inquisition’s leader was, Maker help them all, a Dalish elf.

Oh, the irony of it squeezed at her, tighter than any of her bone-crushing dress. She was sure most scholars would be feeling it as well; a Dalish elf deciding the future of nations that could not care less about the plight of her people while everyone else played catch up? It was far too sensational a topic not to enthral those whose lives revolved around observing history. Her court historian must be having a field day. 

At least _someone_ was having fun.

Celene herself was quite tired of playing catch up. Tired of falling behind Gaspard as he attacked her troops. Tired of failing to play diplomat to people who would not understand what she was offering. Tired of falling for Briala’s tricks, especially the one in that chamber where her nation was plunged into war. 

That last kiss; hard yet tender, a simile of the thousand kisses traded in her bedroom, far too passionate, and far too desperate. She should have known. _Damn that kiss, damn her. Damn, damn, damn._

The empress hid the scream of frustration that built up in her throat by taking a small sip of her wine and smiling pleasantly at Lothair Doucy, who raised his glass in a toast to her. Her mind was far too occupied to do more than nod at the councilman.

Briala, _Briala_ , **_Briala_ ** . Ever since her former lover had entered the blighted ballroom, it was as if she was always just in the corner of the empress’ eye; talking with scandalized nobles, taking a sip of _champagne_ with the same elegance as Celene had, grinning with a mad glint at the Inquisition. Always there. Tormenting her. Exactly as the elf had planned, no doubt. Celene would not love her half as much if she did not pull these tricks on her.

Luckily, her plans for tonight hinged less on her actions than others; she only had to be seen while her entourage ran things. Morrigan was playing scout for Gaspard’s men, Cyril was busy seducing Gaspard’s nobles and creating scandal, Solange was agitating the nobles that were in firmly in the neutral zone, and her ladies-in-waiting were making sure that the ball ran as planned. 

Celene, meanwhile, smiled pleasantly, dealt with Gaspard and negotiated an end to this bloody and _unnecessary_ war. All the while trying to keep Briala off her mind, even as the elf sat right beside her during negotiations. It would always have been a pointless exercise, anyway; if she could have forgotten her, she would not be in half the mess she was in tonight.

It was during a lull in the negotiation when Florianne finally played her hand, (whatever _that_ was), and Celene watched the dance floor with some amusement. The Inquisitor was a decent dancer. The moves and grace with which she moved were a bit _too_ practised perhaps, but it was passable. Florianne was, of course, much better.

A fact that became far too obvious by end of the song when Florianne gallantly dipped Lavellan. 

Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Nightingale, both obviously trying to hide their disappointment, had tried their best, but most of the people here had trained their entire lives for nights like these. Still, it had been a valiant effort, and Lavellan had succeeded far more than Celene ever expected from someone who had, presumably, never seen the inside of a ballroom until a year ago. It was, however, still a rather obvious disaster to anyone with a modicum of sense for their Game. 

Turning around to walk to her balcony where the rebuilding city of Halamshiral glimmered in the distance, a slender elf with a green dress casually entered her view as she too went into her quiet refuge from the ballroom. Briala was bound to be as _enamoured_ with Lavellan as Celene herself was. The empress tightened her grip on the white marbled barrister of her balcony, glad that her back was turned and no one could see the sneer on her face. Again, **_Briala_ **. Would this torment never end.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed as more Inquisition soldiers invaded the ballroom. Celene privately rolled her eyes. Of course, the Inquisition would notice that her guards were scarcely spaced across the room, but did they _have_ to make it so blatantly obvious and ruin her carefully plotted counter to Gaspard’s little coup d’état?

It was, of course, not an _entirely_ deplorable act. After all, they were protecting the people. Just like they had done in every region that set foot in since entering Orlais. She hated it. This deference, this _favour,_ that she owed the Inquisition for every region that they stabilized. She was bound to be in their debt even after this Magister Sidereal was dealt with. She needed a plan to curtail their growing influence before they caused more harm than good.

But only **_after._**

After tonight and whatever it may bring.

She had not tried to stop them, after all. How could she when her armies were tied up in the Dales and her people were suffering? She remembered well the vows she took when the crown was placed on her head. _I vow to thee, the service of my love. I vow to thee, a love undeterred by sacrifice. I vow to thee, pride that stands time, test, and torment. I vow to thee, my pride that is my people’s._ Her people would not falter for her pride. Celene breathed out, looking towards Halamshiral in the distance and pushing out the smell of burnt flesh out of her mind.

She heard the sounds of footsteps long before a quiet voice interrupted solitude.

“Your Majesty, there is something that requires your attention.”

Ah, dear Fleur would always be her favourite. Not that she would ever tell, of course. But after having saved the then young girl from a rather brutal and cruel brothel in Val Royeaux during her more adventurous young days as empress (when the palace walls had crushed in her far too much leading her to venture nightly to the less pristine parts of her city in a disguise) and after concocting a noble past for her to give her this position, Celene was quite fond of her. The woman was far more cunning than the part she played for the court. 

“The Inquisitor wishes a word with you…” she sounded surprisingly hesitant, her voice almost catching in her throat as she leaned in to whisper, “… She has been in your chambers, my lady, she has…”

Celene had an inkling of what the Inquisitor had found. “She has what, Fleur?”

“The locket, your majesty, she has the locket.”

Her heart stopped in her chest. That… was not what she had been expecting. She had thought of the man currently tied up in her bedroom (though she had not slept in there in months for fear of giving a far too obvious target for the numerous assassins), and how poor Phillipe must be incredibly frightened. It served him well for betraying his Chevalier oath to his monarch – to _her_. 

She needed answers.

“Fleur.”

The woman recoiled at her tone. “I think she suspects, my lady.”

“ _Everyone_ suspects, Fleur, that is half my damn problems.” Celene swallowed a sigh and mentally launched that accursed play and its playwright to the depths of the Amaranthine. “I will talk to her, of course.”

“Your Majesty, I believe she has spoken with Lady Briala as well.”

How _utterly_ marvellous. “Thank you.”

She swayed her way to where the Inquisitor was waiting and beaconed her close with two fingers. The elf walked purposefully to her. The red outfit stood out among the more pale scheme of the night, attracting the attention of the court, and Lavellan, remarkably, fidgeted only slightly under the scrutiny of her nobles. Celene hid a smirk. Maybe the failed dance was a fluke or a dangerous play in their Game. How _charming_. 

Now that she was close, Celene had to admit, she was rather unorthodoxly pretty. The big eyes that marked her as elven were the colour of a chestnut, the sandy blond hair up in a braid, the slightly tanned skin from wandering around all of Orlais. Her tattoos – Vallaslin, she vaguely remembered Briala saying once – were a bit gratuitous, spanning one entire half of her face and twisting her features into something Celene could barely discern. It looked painful to acquire such a design, and the empress wondered just how exactly it was chosen.

There was a cunning look behind those brown eyes and Celene privately watched as the Inquisitor’s gaze drifted slightly to look at the countryside beyond the balcony she had just been at. Or, likely, at the city of Halamshiral still shining in the distance. The Inquisitor tried to keep her face blank, but she was not entirely well trained and Celene saw it all; the disappointment, anger, and sadness, all of it twisting about her marked face.

Celene watched the locket – Briala’s locket, _Briala’s mother’s_ locket – dangle casually from the Inquisitor’s unmarked hand. Lavellan carelessly played around with the chain, letting it fall almost dangerously low and swinging it back up, unaware (or perhaps _too_ aware) of Celene’s heart doing the same dance in fear that the elf would break the precious gift. She kept her face blank – pleasant, of course – but a quiet rage built within her.

It was _hers_ . Gifted to a woman that had likely never existed no matter how much Celene wished that the woman Briala had seen in her in those days was real and not as callous as Celene actually was. But it was still _hers._ Or, at the very least, it was Briala’s. How dare she play with it? How dare she?

Still, Celene smiled pleasantly. Her face would later crack in the privacy of her chambers. If she ever got the chance. If she survived the night. “Inquisitor, I regret we did not get the chance to speak earlier…


End file.
